like waking up to a sunday morning
by atlasky
Summary: "I thought you were doing a Julia Robert's Eat-Pray-Love kind of thing," he tells her. [Prompt fill for anon]


**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

**Author's note:** Um? Special thanks for iavenge for telling me to get off tumblr and write. For the kind anon who sent me this prompt, and a long overdue promised angst for deadlyromanova and heyla44.

.

_You've held your head up_

_You've fought the fight_

_You bear the scars_

_You've done your time_

_Listen to me_

_You've been lonely, too long_

**dust to dust - the civil wars**

.

He wakes up. It's seven in the morning.

There is tiredness in his bones; it's nothing new for him. It has become a permanent thing recently. He rubs his eyelids with his knuckles, rolls over and drags the blanket with him. His sheet is disturbingly cold. He doesn't want to get out of bed.

That one isn't new either.

Some days are better than others. Most of them aren't.

It has been three years since all the mess in DC.

Even until now, he still doesn't know what to feel, what to think. It is all shambles in his head. He stares at the whiteness of his ceiling, unmoving.

At first, he managed to cover it all up. He got up and started to search for Bucky – _because he's alive, he's here, I need to find him _– but no matter how hard he looked, he was not there. He had done everything he could, had searched literally everywhere but it was to no avail. It was a dark six months for him, being dragged down bit by bit with reeling helplessness.

It took a lot for the others to convince him, but after Tony promised him he would help by setting up all alerts possible for Bucky _if_ Steve goes home, he did. _'- because it's doing no good for you and we need you here.' _As determined as he is to find Bucky, he knows if anyone has the biggest chance on finding him – it's Tony and his connections. By connections, he means: _bugs and spywares he has on various government agencies around the world_. Still, three years has passed and there were some sightings here and there, but they are always brief and never enough to form a pattern. He goes by with that though, with the blurry photographs and the knowledge that Bucky's unharmed, he's safe. It's almost enough for him to keep holding on.

The others were right though. He knows they were. They still have the threat of HYDRA over their heads; no matter they had taken out the main operation of it all. So that's what he has also been doing, during the long and tedious three years. Running around and trying his damnest to stop the horrible plans the remains of HYDRA have under their sleeves with the rest of the Avengers.

His phone rings. He reluctantly props himself up on one elbow, reaching out to grab the Starkphone from his bedside table. His finger slides on the touchscreen, presses the phone to his ear.

"Steve, man. How are you?"

_Sam._ "Hey. I'm fine, you?"

Steve lives in New York now, a small apartment between the high buildings that form the concrete jungle. Sam tried to stay for a while after their search for Bucky, but he feels like he still has responsibilities he can't leave behind in DC – so he moved back. He still joins them for HYDRA raids now and then though. Although honestly, it has been a while since Steve has last seen him.

"My back hurts from hours of paperwork but it could be worse, I suppose," Sam says drily. "Is that your bed voice I'm hearing? You're getting lazy, Rogers. It' seven in the morning. You should be ashamed with yourself."

Steve chuckles, plopping himself back on the bed. "Remind me again about that time in Prague."

"_Not cool,"_ Sam protests. "That's low. You swore you would never bring that up."

"I think I still have a picture of that somewhere."

"You're an ass."

"That's what Hill says."

Sam laughs. "She still mad at you for Brazil?"

"I don't know if she'll ever get over that, to be honest," he grimaces. Then hesitates for a second. "Listen, Sam – I don't want to be rude, but – "

"Yeah," Sam cuts in, sighing. "I'm calling you at seven in the morning and the world isn't ending."

Steve nods even when he's aware Sam can't see it. "Precisely. It's not that I'm not glad to hear from you or anything."

"You better be," Sam chides, attempting levity. It is quiet for a while before he speaks again. "I just want to know if you're coming, today."

Steve's eyes slid shut. _Today_. Right. "I'll be there," he says. "We'll be using the jet."

Maybe Sam hears the slight hesitation in his voice. "You sure? You do know she'll understand if you're not there."

"I'll see you," he says again, more firmly.

"Okay, whatever you think is best," Sam assures. "Just so you know, there is an unwritten rule book somewhere about coming to your ex's wedding. You might want to get started on writing an actual one. It'll be a best-seller or something. And plus, there'll be booze."

Steve laughs. "I can't get drunk, Sam."

"It won't hurt to try," he replies. "See you there, though?"

He nods again. "Yeah."

That's another thing that happened in the last three years.

Him and Sharon. He hadn't seen it coming, really. Much like anything that has ever happened in his life. It happened a little bit over a year ago. Sharon had been his back-up, as a liaison between CIA and the Avengers. They had spent a lot of time together, and it was nice. She's nice. It started with post-battle dinners and they had decided to give it a try. They dated for a whole month before it was obvious things wouldn't work out between them. She insisted it was none of their faults. Steve knows it's his fault, though. He was so occupied with things that had happened, the people he had lost, and what he still had to do, that he neglected the_ here _and _now_. Or perhaps, maybe it was because he felt guilty for knowing deep down since the beginning that it wouldn't have worked out because – _no_.

_No._ He is not going down on that road. This happens a lot, if he takes his time to sit down and think and wonder. That's why he doesn't ponder. Much. He tries his best not to, anyway. Maybe it's cowardly of him, but he knows how dangerous thoughts can be.

He gets up. He has a wedding to attend.

.

The wedding was nice.

Clint, Tony, and Sam are the only avengers besides him that can make it to the wedding because Thor has something to do back in Asgard and Bruce is in some kind of meditation program (he has been told it's going to calm his nerves spectacularly) in Seattle. They sat at the back of the church, hidden away from the crowds of Sharon's and Mark's (that's the name of the man she's marrying, a childhood sweetheart of hers who has also been one of her closest friends) friends. Sharon looks happy, and Steve is glad.

Now though, it's the wedding reception and there are fewer places to hide in the beachside villa.

He remembers why he hesitated on coming. A couple of people, ex-shield agents, have come up to him so far and by the time the fifth person walks up to him, Steve quietly excuses himself from the table and away from Sam's knowing eyes.

He originally planned to approach Sharon later, when the crowd is already thinning – but he has told Sam and the others he was going to do it now and there are no take-backs from that. He can still feel their gazes on his back. It's not that he doesn't get where they're coming from, he thinks he understands why they're worried about him. In a way, they've become a huge dysfunctional family of some sort. They have no one else but each other, after all. Still, it doesn't mean he has gotten used to them worrying about him. It doesn't mean he likes it. He doesn't like that he makes them worry, he—

"Steve?" Sharon's soft smile.

"Hey," he gives her a smile; he doesn't realize he's already at her table. "Congratulations." Mark nods at him in a friendly greeting. Sharon stands up to give Steve a hug.

"Thank you. I'm so glad you can make it," she tells him as he returns her embrace. "Are you staying in DC for long?"

He shrugs a little, "Probably not," he tells her. "There are still some things that need to be done back in New York."

She looks at him pointedly, "There is _always_ something that needs to be done, Steve."

From other people, that sentence might have come out as rude. From her, it's just the truth. Despite having tricked him with the whole neighbour fiasco, Sharon surprisingly has zero tolerance for lies outside the field. Professional work and personal life are two distinct spectrums with different moralities for her. He wonders how she does that, sometimes. His life is just a tangled blur of mess compared to hers. He laughs softly, "It's in the job description, I think. One you're familiar with."

"Good job reminding me that on my day off," she sighs, pretending to be upset before she grins. They both know she wouldn't do anything else. "I love you, you know that right?"

"I love you too," he grins a little too, since of course, Sharon's mood is as infectious as always. And he does – he does love her. And she loves him. It's just never that way between them. It's never like him and – _stop_. Then before his mind strays afar again he leans in to kiss Sharon's cheek. There's another time and place for _that_.

He pulls away to congratulate Mark but Sharon's tender hands grasp his. She stares at him. "Which is why I want you to be happy, Steve."

He furrows his brows a little, confused. "I know," he says. Because what is he supposed to say to that?

Sharon smirks – and _oh_, he knows that look. She has something up her sleeves and he's not sure he's going to like it. Before he can call her out on it though, one of her hands lets go of his and reaches up to cup his cheek and gently move his head towards the right side of the massive room. He moves his gaze and _she_ is there, standing just besides some abstract fern plants near the door, staring at him. There is a smile on _her_ lips. He can't believe his eyes.

It has been three years since the mess in DC, but it has also been three years since he has last seen _her._

Sharon nudges him and he gathers enough of his sense to look at her. The look in her eyes is tinged with hope and sadness. Sadness for him, he realizes. Hope for him. She says, "Don't be an idiot this time."

Apparently, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, the time and place for_ that_ is here and now.

.

Red hair. Red lips. Pointed chin. Knee length green dress that brings out the slight blue in her eyes.

"Hey soldier," she says, as if she has last seen him yesterday and they talk all the time. As if she knows what he ate for dinner last week and where he bought the ugly carpet he splays out in his guest bedroom last month.

"Natasha," he says, as if he hasn't seen her for three goddamn years and no longer remembers the sound of her voice. As if he doesn't know when she has grown her hair to those curls that stop at the small of her back and doesn't recognize the quirk of her lips anymore.

The music plays. She steps closer to him. Reaches out a hand, raises an eyebrow. That same, daring smile. "Dance with me?"

He accepts her hand. Small against his, fitting as always. Softer, less callous. A new scar on the inside of her palm, a raised newly healed patch of skin. He can't think. So he doesn't. He leads her to the dance floor, hesitates a second when she encircles her arms around his neck before grasping her hips. They start to sway.

Songs start to blur into one another, three? Five? He can't tell. It feels like a while, and he can't decide whether he wants to pull her closer or push her further away. They say nothing to each other. She's the one breaking the silence. Her eyes sparkle, "You're getting better at this."

"You're not getting worse," he replies and she laughs. He has been remembering her laughter wrong.

"Been practicing more?" She asks, curious.

"Yeah, well. Three years is a long time."

He can't help the bitterness seeping in his voice. He doesn't understand how she can waltz back to his life with such ease when he's barely scrambling for something to hold on to. He expects her to recoil and let go. She doesn't.

"Let's go outside," she says instead.

He glances out of the window to the beach. "It's dark," he observes. But it's not a no. He can never say no to her.

.

She walks ahead of him and he follows. Perhaps he should ask her if she wants to meet the others first. He doesn't. Somewhere along the steps they take to the sandy beach she discards her heels and he takes off his shoes. The weather is cold, there doesn't seem to be anyone else outside. He offers her his suit jacket, she says thanks. She glances at him, tossing her hair over one shoulder when her nimble feet hit the sand. She still manages to steal his breath. He averts his gaze.

If he hadn't seen Sharon coming from a mile away, it was different with Natasha.

With her, it's something that grows – something that was nurtured by sleepless nights and movie marathons and Uno cards and road-trips to god knows where. It's something that was forged in battles, their partnership, and long days undercover with no back-up but each other. It's learning each other's habits, little quirks, and making fun of them in the process but accepting without a second thought. It's knowing her favorite food and the way she navigates herself around his kitchen despite of her inability to cook. It's her sitting patiently for hours without moving whenever he asked to draw her and her hunting down vintage music albums she thought he might like. It's a living, breathing thing that has been there all along. It's as normal as waking up to the smell of rain on a Sunday – but _he fell so hard_.

The worst part of it – is him finding out that she feels _(felt?)_ the same way about him just a few days before all the mess with HYDRA. They never got to bring their relationship anywhere and when the mess ended he had been too distraught and she had to take time to rediscover herself. They parted ways – and it hurt, but it was something they needed to do. He just didn't think it would also mean total radio silence and not a single syllable traded between them. She disappeared from the surface of the earth, just like that. Frankly, he's disappointed because he thought what they had meant more to her than that. But still, he keeps spending more nights than he can count wondering about her anyway.

There had really been a time, then – when he thought he was over her. He sincerely thought so. He really believed he was _in love_ with Sharon and he didn't see Natasha in every small detail of his life anymore. He could only keep up with a lie for so long before it shatters. That's why Sharon and him didn't work, isn't it? He's still—

They walk far enough down the beach before she slips down on the sand, mindful not to dirty the edges of his jacket. He sits next to her. She pulls her knees up to her chest.

"So what have you been up to lately?"

They're playing this game. The one where they shove all their problems away and pretend everything is fine. It has become increasingly familiar for him these last few years. He plays along. He's grateful, in a way. He doesn't know what to say to her.

"I've been taking art classes at the local college," he answers. It's the only resemblance to normalcy he has. She nods, smiling a little, not surprised.

"I told you that you should," she says. She had. So many times. He was reluctant because it didn't feel right in between his SHIELD routines and everything else.

"What about you?"

"Me?" She tucks her chin on her crossed arms, head tilted and looking at him. "Nothing much. I've been here and there, pulling some strings, doing some shopping. Getting a tan." And yeah, he noticed the tan.

"I thought you were doing a Julia Robert's Eat-Pray-Love kind of thing," he tells her finally, leaning back a little. The breeze blows her curls and her cheeks are flushed from the cold. Now that she's here, he's hyperaware of her and he's not sure if that's a good thing.

She laughs again, this time with surprise. "Look at you, throwing pop culture references here and there. I'm proud." And that – that is something new. Her laughter. He knows he hasn't been remembering it wrong. Rather, it has changed. It's more carefree and light than he remembers. The edge of sharpness that's usually in it, never mind how concealed it usually was, is softer somehow. Her time away has served her well. "I wish. But I did stay in Bali for a while."

He recalls her saying something about wanting to go there, before. "Yeah?"

She hums. "A few months. I didn't want to leave."

"What was it like?"

"You would have loved it there," she says. "The sun, the art, the beach, the people – you would have."

"Probably," he agrees quietly. "Why didn't you just stay there, then?"

Her smile falters a little, turns solemn. "I still had to tie up some loose ends." And leave it at that. He doesn't ask her for details.

He presses his brain for something to say, "I almost got a cat."

She raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Really, Rogers? Wouldn't have pegged you as a cat-lady. I thought you would have loved dogs better."

He doesn't tell her it's a black cat with green eyes that kept showing up at his window for weeks, that the cat has a judgmental expression similar to hers and he thought he was so damn _pathetic_ for even thinking that. He brought the cat to a nice lady downstairs who had told him that she was looking to get one. "Yeah, well. If you're looking at it that way, I would have pegged you as someone with a tarantula as a pet. Or exotic animals of some sort."

"You think I'm dangerous, mysterious, and fascinating all at once, Rogers. That's very flattering," she says drily. He stares at her and laughs despite of himself.

"No, that's too much," he says. "We both know you cry when you watch movies."

She shoves him, glaring. "It was that _one_ time – and you cried when you watched Titanic, you don't get to pretend you have some dignity."

"You're a sore loser, Romanoff. You're just upset I gave a better come back."

"Oh? You think you're so witty, aren't you?"

He shrugs. "It's okay; I know you must be rusty. Cut yourself some slack."

She snorts. "Someone who can't beat me at Uno should just shut up."

"You want to bring up the fact that you hid all the good cards every time we played?"

"It's called being clever, Rogers," she corrects. "It's not my fault you're not cunning enough."

He rolls his eyes. There's no winning from her in this argument. She'll just twist his words and the rules over and over again. He knows, he tried. He doesn't really mind.

They sit in silence after that, watching the sea. After a while, she shifts closer to him, pressing her body to his and her head on his shoulder as if she has every right to. He tenses – he's not sure if this is still a privilege between them, but when she has one arm around his middle he circles an arm around her shoulders and relaxes in reflex. This is –

"The others want me to see a therapist," he blurts out. And he can't see her face, doesn't know if it's twisted to a frown or in disapproval – or if it's something else.

He doesn't expect what she says. "I suggested it," she says, matter-of-factly. "And it's grief counselor – not therapist."

He tenses again. "What?" He hisses from between his teeth, there is a churning in his gut and he feels so betrayed – she suggested it? But that's not what sticks out to him – it's the fact that she's implying she has been talking with the others. He knows she has been, since she's here at Sharon's wedding – but he assumed it was just a spur of the moment thing, not that she has been in touch with everyone all along.

"You wouldn't talk to any of them," she points out. "You wouldn't even talk to Sam."

His arm falls from where it has been resting around her but she doesn't weaken her grip on him, rather, she also circles another arm behind his back so that she's hugging him from the side. It's tight enough that he can't move away without really trying. He forgets how persistent she can be. "_Natasha."_

"They're worried about you," she moves her head away from his shoulder but still doesn't let go. She says this calmly, as if she has rehearsed this in her head and knows all along they're going to have this conversation. "We're worried."

The laughter that escapes his mouth is filled with irony, "They shouldn't. You shouldn't. I'm _fine_."

She frowns. "You're not, Steve. You've been taking unnecessary risks in the field and no one knows what you do outside from missions. Do you even do anything?"

"I have art classes," he weakly says, deflated. The anger at her that has quickly surged up softens. Because he can't – it has been bubbling underneath the surface and _here_ with her warm eyes, concerned face, and nothing else but determination to make him talk is enough to bleed the fight out of him.

"That you only signed up for because Clint urged you to," she reminds him. He's not surprised she knows about that. "What else do you do?"

He shrugs again. He doesn't know what he does, per se. Mindless routines. Grocery shopping. Cleaning his apartment. Weekly dinner with Tony and Pepper. Visits to Peggy that have been growing less frequent, he guiltily remembers. Training with Clint. Outings with Bruce or Thor. Helping Sam with VA stuffs, sometimes. None of them have been his idea.

"I don't know," he admits in the end.

"You have to take care of yourself," she tells him. And it's blunt, none of the dancing around the others would have said to him. It's the way she always has been.

He rubs his free hand on his face, looks away. "I know."

He can feel her gaze turns calculating. She knows he's being honest. Perhaps she has thought she would have to beat some sense into him and he wouldn't put it past her to execute it in real life. "Steve?" She implores, gently.

"I couldn't find him." He doesn't even realize he has spoken, not until words just start to stumble out of his lips – one after the other. His voice raises, cracks. "I couldn't save him then – and now – "

He cuts himself off before he says anything else. He's horrified. This is the first time he talks to anyone about all of this without the professional manner of it all. But Natasha reaches up with one hand to turn his face towards her. There is no pity in her demeanour, just understanding. "It's not your fault, Steve."

He shakes his head. She sighs. She understands, though – that this is the kind of guilt that is inevitable, something that isn't going to just disappear anytime soon no matter if it's true or not. "Perhaps he doesn't want to be found."

"He's my brother," he says. Why can't people just get that? "It's my responsibility."

"Do you trust maybe he's also trying to find his way back, on his own terms?"

He clenches his jaw. "I don't know what to trust."

"James –," she stops, chooses her words carefully. Watching him. "He's a fighter. He knows how to take care of himself."

It's the first time she has admitted that she knows Bucky, from before. She has been subtle about it so far, nothing more than implying it now and then every time the subject came up. She hasn't hid it, though. It's enough for him. And to know that someone knows Bucky as he is, as the Winter Soldier, as whoever he is right now – "You think so?"

She doesn't point out the quiver in his voice and smiles an honest smile at him. "I know so."

His shoulders drop and he's so tired – "_Nat_."

She moves. She positions them so she is now properly embracing him, her fingers tracing soothing circles on his back just in time with the exact second his body crumbles. He breathes her in, shaking. It feels good to let it go, to share all the leaden weight with someone else. And it feels good just to hold her – it's too much, thinking is too much – he shuts his brain down, drowning himself in the moment and all the emotions raging inside of him.

"You need to stop shutting everybody out," she says, when he has calmed down enough to breathe evenly, his hand in her hair.

"You're one to talk," he retorts, then winces – because he doesn't know when she's going to disappear again and this is not what he wants to spend his time with her for. "Sorry."

"You're right," she says. "I'm learning though – I am. That's why I couldn't be around you. I needed to learn, and you deserve that much. I can't be around you, when I don't know who I am." He wants to correct her, say that he doesn't care, because it's her that he needs, no matter who she is she's always going to be _Natasha_ to him – but it's selfish of him when this is something she has to do for herself. The first freedom she ever has in her life. So he doesn't. Truthfully, he's happy for her. Can see how she has come a long way. Indescribably glad to see the increasingly fading darkness in her eyes. "I wasn't what you needed."

"How do you know that?"

She doesn't dignify that with an answer for a while.

"You're mad at me."

"What do you think?"

"That you have every right to."

He releases a shaky breath. "God, you're something else aren't you."

"I'm sorry," she offers, and she lets go of him to cradle his face between her hands. Pulls him down a bit so she can kiss his forehead. Tenderly. "If it helps, Clint calls me a stubborn idiot and Stark kept calling me once a week no matter where I went just to call me rude names."

"One phone call Nat," he whispers. He's not sure she can hear him. His voice is almost silent. "Or hell – One email. I just – "

"I know," she whispers back, green eyes wide. "And I regret it. I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."

"You are," he says.

"I'm what?"

"Stupid."

It's petty and childish but it does make her smile. "Talk to someone, okay Steve? Please, try for me."

He tangles his fingers in her curls. "Okay," he murmurs. "Okay."

She presses another kiss, this time to the tip of his nose. Their breaths mingling in the cold air.

"Natasha, I—"

_What?_ I miss you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

"I know," the smile she gives him is blinding, one of the brightest he has ever seen from her but it's sad around the edges. She's not sorry though, and he doesn't expect her to be. "Me too. Always."

"Yeah," he laughs softly – because he knows that too. He knows. But it doesn't mean he doesn't _yearn_ for her. It doesn't mean some days he doesn't _need_ her so badly it hurts and aches and fills every crack in his mind with the thought of her. God_, he loves her_. "Are you staying?"

"No," she replies. "Not yet. I'll call this time."

It's not that he hasn't expected that, but the disappointment still strikes him hard and fast. He focuses on the warmth of her pressed against his body instead. "Okay."

After their feet have grown undeniably numb from the cold and the arms they have around each other are already stiff, she nudges him. "I have to go."

He nods.

She kisses his cheek, and his eyelids flutter shut.

She doesn't say goodbye, brings his suit jacket with her no matter it's the only good one he has. He doesn't watch her leave this time, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline drowns out her already silent footsteps. He sits there for who knows how long; but this is something they need to do. He needs to pick up the pieces of his life and she needs to figure out who she is. It is a long road for both of them, and it's not going to be easy – but nothing in their lives is ever is. He takes a deep breath, counts – _one, two, three_ – and slowly picks himself up off the sand. She is long gone, nothing but footsteps on the beach and the smell of her perfume plastered on his clothes, the memory of her warmth against his senses.

He slowly treks his way back to the muted sound of the party, on the opposite way from where she has gone. He is calm now –not entirely, but calmer than he has been in a long time. But these things won't heal themselves, he knows. He still has a lot to do.

And maybe later, someday. When they're either different people – or the same, but a little less damaged, a bit more complete, they'll meet again. Soon, he promises himself. _Soon_.

.

.

.

It's seven months later and she has called him exactly twelve times.

The last one being just a couple of days ago, from Paris.

He thinks he has been getting better – he doesn't know, exactly. But his heart grows less heavy each day and he has started doing things with a bit more purpose. It's not everything, though it's a start nonetheless. He has been talking to Sam, just bits and pieces – but it _does_ help. He has been talking to Natasha too, and they have quickly grown back to their old conversational routine. She sent him art books, for his birthday last month. And he has a new job too – an opening in the section of his firm that deals with art and culture which Tony promised isn't charity as long as Steve finishes his art degree (yes, he's getting that, apparently).

In between all of that, there have been three sightings of Bucky. He printed the pictures out, just like with the previous ones, and keeps them in a neat bundle inside his desk drawer. This time, one of the pictures is of Bucky buying coffee at a Starbucks in London – and Steve had laughed and cried a little bit at that. It's also the picture that has _really_ convinced him that Bucky is okay (as relative and arbitrary as the term okay can be, he knows), and just like him – he just needs time.

He's painting in his living room, clothes smeared with colors and fingers reeking the smell of oil when there is a knock on his door. He stumbles to the door, Clint is supposed to be here by an hour ago but he's late and it's nothing unusual. The door swings open before he manages to even open it.

_She _is standing there with a fat grey tabby cat on one arm, curling contently, and his spare key in her left hand.

He blinks in surprise by the bizarreness of the sight and tries not to focus on the luggage by her feet. "Nat – "

She crinkles her eyebrows as she looks at him. Her hair is now shoulder-length, and this time, he knows she has cut it in Dublin a couple of weeks ago. "That won't do."

"What won't do?"

She points at his messy living room, where cans of paints are carelessly scattered here and there. "That, Rogers," she says as if she hasn't been speaking in riddles and he's a complete idiot. "You can't just throw your paint anywhere you want – what if the cat steps on them?"

His brain has a bit of difficulty connecting the dots. "The cat… ?"

She rolls her eyes impatiently. "_Yes_, the cat. I haven't named it though, I'll leave the boring task for you."

She steps inside, drags her luggage, closes the door behind her, and locks it with one smooth motion. He still hasn't moved from where he's standing, dumbfounded.

"Rogers?" She's walking closer to him, the cat purring in comfort but cracking one eye open to assess him curiously – already it's an epitome of her. "You know, I didn't expect a welcome party or anything, but the least you could do is probably cooking me a decen—"

He grabs her, draws her into a hug so sudden she gasps in surprise. Warmth bursts inside his chest and he laughs breathlessly. "Are you staying? Because I'm not sure I have a spot for both of you."

"You're a jerk, Rogers."

She hides her smile in the crook of his neck. The cat meows in protest, cradled between them.

.

**End.**

.

I have no excuse for this. I WANT THEM TO HAVE A CAT, OKAY. AND OF COURSE THE ROAD TO THAT IS NOT GOING TO BE EASY. All of those above, people, is so they can have a cat. Thank you.

**Prompt**: Steve goes to an ex-girlfriend's wedding and Natasha surprises him.

.


End file.
